


Though The Sword May Wound

by elfbones



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2016, Uncle/Nephew Incest, the incest is all imaginary but you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7088263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfbones/pseuds/elfbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin attempts to deal with unwanted thoughts, but only ends up with more than when he started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though The Sword May Wound

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [merryismaytime2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/merryismaytime2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Maeglin is trying very hard not to fixate on his cousin. So he fixates on his uncle instead. Bonus points for wanking outdoors while gazing at the Tower of the King in a lovelorn manner.

There's a light breeze tonight, rustling the jasmine sitting in its pot and carrying the dizzyingly sweet scent across the balcony. It's been a very, very long day, but here Maeglin sits, nestled into pillows and watching the city instead of sleeping, trying to let the quiet soak the noise of the day out of his head. He scrubs tiredly at his eyes, hoping to dislodge the images playing behind them, but only succeeds in making them more bloodshot. The sun burns them there, he thinks, and the only relief he knows of is to drown them out with physical pleasure. The thought always makes his throat close up, even though he's made absolutely sure that _no one_ could intrude, but -  
  
_There Idril was, arrayed in a gown so covered in crystalline facets that he could swear she shone brighter than all the chandeliers above their heads, though logically he knew the light was only reflected. It was certainly a breathtaking sight, and he was sure it would have been a lovely one too if it hadn't made his eyes water and his head ache._  
  
_"Are you enjoying the party, cousin?" she'd asked, a floating haze of vague blondness and pain at his side. He did his best not to squint or avert his eyes too obviously as he assured her that he was, but she still said "Is something the matter?" and laid a hand on his arm, making his skin itch -_  
  
He grits his teeth and undoes his belt, thinking _stop, stop_ , over and over, tracing the shape of the word. It doesn't take much to get him aroused, really; it happens anytime he isn't putting effort into it _not_ happening.  
  
_"You must be tired, cousin." she said in council, and perhaps it was meant to be gently mocking, but in the inflection he heard his mother,_ you must be tired _, and in that there's the echo of a soft touch and warm covers, and comfort._  
  
_Maeglin agreed with her, just to see the surprise on her face._  
  
He slicks his hand in the salve kept stashed in his pocket, then slides it over himself, wishing he didn't hear her voice or feel her touch, staring at the pale tower in the distance and trying to think of something, anything, else -  
  
_For a moment, there was a hand that brushed over his own. There was a hand, and the brief warmth stilled Maeglin's, before it made a hasty retreat. Turgon gave him an apologetic look, murmuring for him to "go ahead" and waiting for him to choose from the sticks of charcoal that their hands had met over. Maeglin remained as he was for a little too long to be comfortable, staring at him: all softly golden with the light from the window, a little half-smile quirking his lips. Maeglin took one without looking and turned back to his work, bleating a senseless "sorry" and willing his fingers to stop shaking._  
  
That, _that's worse_ , but his breathing picks up anyway, his skin heats up, and his eyes are fixed helplessly on the tower. The Tower of the King, glowing faintly with moonlight, and he wonders -  
  
_The King's arms around him froze him shock-still. Maeglin could scarcely breathe, though the embrace was light, and he could feel the pulse-beat in his own throat as clearly as he could feel the warmth seeping into him from Turgon's body. He managed to get a hand up, but he was unsure of where to put it, and then it was over before he could decide._  
  
_He had never been more aware of how cold he was._  
  
\- he wonders what might have happened. If he had caught his hand instead of going still; if he had leaned into the embrace instead of freezing. More than that, he wonders if any of the little touches were deliberate, or if there was some meaning in the way their eyes would catch sometimes; the way they would linger together in an empty room after business was concluded, searching for more to say as if afraid that walking out the door meant disappearing. He _wants_ it to mean something, and he can't stop for all that the wanting feels like a sword in his chest.  
  
He wonders stranger things too, here with only the Tower to see him. Is the King awake right now? Is he out on his balcony, too? The thought garners a little choked moan as his hand continues working, much too loud despite biting his lip and stifling it. He forgets for the moment that no one would be able to see him from that distance, not in this darkness. He'll have this one foolish fantasy.  
  
How might things have been different that one evening, when he came by to discuss a building project, and they ended up sitting side-by-side in Turgon's study? So close Maeglin could almost breathe him in. If he had just turned, they could have kissed. If Maeglin had scooted just a little further, he would have been in his lap. He could have felt how much he _wanted_ , then, pressed together like that. He could have drawn his hand exactly where he needed it, pressed it there. Maeglin imagines it's not his own hand now, sliding his foreskin up as far as it will go and pulling gently; sliding back down in an even stroke. _It's not enough, it's_  
  
Frustrated, Maeglin pulls his robe further aside, caressing his own skin with eyes still on the tower, wishing. He pushes up on his knees and switches hands, seeking with the slicker one. He uses two fingers to circle his rim when he finds it, and picks up his former pace with his other hand, _wanting_ so much -  
  
He remembers how the upholstery of the couch in the study feels, softer than his little outdoor nest of pillows and blanket, but it would still leave marks on his knees if he knelt on it for too long. He thinks of that with yearning, and thinks of being breached, of being stretched; Turgon's breath against his hair. There's a little treasury of words he keeps, carefully remembered and safely tucked away, and he replays some of them now; out of context in his fantasy but just as heady. "You've done well," the fantasy says, and in his mind the rich texture of the voice is exactly the same, if a little breathier just next to his ear instead of across from him. It's that which tips him over rather than the thrust of his fingers or the stroke of his hand, his breath forced from him as warm seed trickles down his fingers.  
  
The rush fades too quickly. Maeglin wipes the mess away and pulls his clothes back on, bundling himself into his blanket. He curls around one of his pillows, hiding behind it and pretending that the last image in his mind isn't his uncle's face, turning away from him in shame.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is loosely based on this poem by Kahlil Gibran, because I'm uncreative and adore overusing this particular poem.


End file.
